The Sixth Estate (The Craig Crime Series) (20 page)

Liam shook his head. “They probably didn’t think that it would be so muddy. Think about it; it was a freezing cold December night; even if it had rained a bit the ground should still have been as hard as rock. They reckoned without the warmth from the house making the ground at the back door unfreeze. They noticed the treads after they’d driven a minute and that’s when they decided to dump the Bwyes.”

“You’re expecting Oliver Bwye to be in the lake as well.”

It was a statement of fact.

“Aren’t you? Anyway, we’ll know soon enough.”

Craig sipped his drink. “OK, Davy, you’ve more to go on now with both the van and car. Any joy on the prints in here?”

“No-one who s…shouldn’t have been in the house.”

Annette cut in. “What about the prints on the whisky decanter?”

“They don’t match any of the s…staff and whoever it is they don’t have a record. I’m still looking. The rest of the house’s forensics yielded nothing.”

Craig nodded. “Hopefully Diana Bwye’s body will. Medical records?”

The analyst’s aquiline face lit up. “Yep. I got an updated transcript from the local emergency department. Both Diana and Jane Bwye had attended hospital more often in the past two months.”

“With?”

“Same as before but more frequently. It looks like Bwye’s violence was getting w…worse.”

“Did they report him to the police?”

“Only once. Mrs Bwye called 999 about four w…weeks ago and officers called here at the house. But when they arrived she was reluctant to make a statement so Bwye wasn’t charged.”

Craig frowned. Too often the abused let their abusers off the hook; it frustrated the hell out of the police. “Do you have a tape of the call?”

Davy tapped his laptop and they listened as an obviously terrified woman begged for help, saying that her husband had gone berserk and was hitting their daughter.

Craig thought for a moment. “Did they attend the emergency department that night?”

“Yes. Both Jane and her mother were treated for abrasions and bruises. Diana Bwye had a bad gash on her left arm, probably from defending Jane. It needed s…stitches.”

Annette shivered; remembering the fractured hand her ex-husband had gifted her.

“It sounds as if Bwye was escalating, sir. God knows what he did when he came home drunk from the golf-club last week.”

Craig shook his head; something still didn’t fit but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Just then the study door opened and Julia and Gerry entered, out of breath.

“Sorry. We went to see a woman who did charity work with Mrs Bwye and got stuck behind a lorry on the pass.”

Snow and ice made the steep Glenshane Pass a challenge at the best of times; add in a slow lorry and a single lane and Craig pictured them sitting there for hours. He was right.

Gerry chipped in. “Eighty minutes it took us! Eighty minutes for ten fricking miles, and when we got there she told us nothing except ‘Diana Bwye bakes lovely cakes’. Remind me never to transfer up here.”

They both looked frozen so Annette rushed to perk fresh coffee while Craig beckoned them over to the fire. When Julia had stopped shivering he asked a question.

“So, was it all about cakes?”

“Not entirely. She confirmed what we suspected, that Bwye beat his wife and daughter and a lot of local people knew. We didn’t make it to the golf-club and I’m not sure that we will today. There’s a blizzard brewing out there.”

Craig walked to the window and gazed out at the whitening countryside. He loved snow, it came a close second to his love of water, but he liked it more when he could ski on it, not when he had to drive through it to Belfast. Liam’s next words made him shelve his self-pity.

“Pity the poor buggers diving in that lake.”

Julia turned sharply. “They’re looking for bodies?”

“Aye. They’ve already found Diana Bwye.”

Craig stilled her looming questions. “Annette will bring you up to speed later. Liam and I have got to drive to Belfast, so we need to wrap it up.” He scanned the circle of faces. “Anyone got anything else they’re burning to say?”

Davy nodded. “It’s about Father Fred.”

Gerry opened his mouth to ask something but Craig shook his head, not missing the sergeant’s scowl. He wasn’t repeating every piece of information for his benefit and there was no point in him making a face about it. They shouldn’t have been late.

“What about him, Davy?”

“Well, it’s just…one of the new comments on his blog could be from Jane Bwye.”

Craig jerked to attention. “What? How do you know?”

“It came in an hour ago, in answer to the question ‘Is s…six million pounds enough to redress the balance and hit a power broker where it hurts?’” He elaborated, despite Craig’s reluctant to update the newbies. “That was posted yesterday; the day after the ransom call was made to Cameron Lawton’s office.”

Craig urged him on. “And?”

“Today’s comment w…was posted from somewhere in Derry, by someone who called themselves Andromeda. In Greek mythology Andromeda was a daughter who was treated badly by her father, so I thought that it might be Jane.”

Liam snorted. “A well-read blackmailer. They can run the prison library.”

“Anyway, s…she answered that she’d thought it might be, but nothing could compensate for the pain they’d caused. S…So I thought…maybe, definitely, Jane Bwye?”

Craig didn’t answer, just began scribbling on the board. After a moment he stepped back so everyone could read his words. Wednesday night; Kidnap. Following Tuesday; ransom call for six million. Wednesday; blog post opening the debate, almost certainly with information leaked from The Chronicle. Thursday; the battered daughter’s response. He tapped the marker against the days.

“There were two days between the ransom call and this possible comment from Jane, and there have been no more ransom calls since the first. I’m going to speculate here, but unless we find Jane Bwye’s body in the lake or we get another ransom call pretty damn quick, I’ll think I’m right.” He retook his seat. “OK, let’s say that you’re Jane and you come home that Wednesday evening at six-thirty, to find your mother alone just staring at a blank TV. A few hours later your father comes in drunk from the golf-club and starts a fight, just as he’s done many times before. Your mother tells you to leave, trying to protect you.” He scanned the circle of faces; some people were listening avidly while others looked more sceptical.

“So you go out for the evening with your unsuitable boyfriend, maybe the defiance of knowing that your father wouldn’t approve of him spurs you on. Eventually you go back home, late, bringing the boyfriend with you for protection, or maybe to finally tell your father about him and hack him off. You find no sign of anyone in the main house so your boyfriend helps himself to your father’s whisky -”

Annette jumped in eagerly. “And forgets to put the decanter back.”

Craig nodded. “Then you notice that the study door is open, when it never is. You enter and see the blood but you don’t know what to do. What do you do next?”

Julia chipped in. “Call the police.”

Annette shook her head. “You run. You’re young and scared and whoever’s taken your parents might come back. Or, if it’s your father, he may have killed your mother and you think that you’re next. Jane wouldn’t have known whether the blood belonged to one or both of her parents just by looking at it.”

Gerry joined in. “She could have assumed that it was all her mother’s and that he’d killed her. He was drunk and aggressive earlier that evening, after all.”

Liam’s bass drowned out the rising speculation. “Annette’s right; you’d get the hell out of Dodge, but it’s because you also know you’ll look as guilty as hell. Your dad won’t give you your inheritance for years, he beats you and everyone knows you hate him; you’re suspect number one for the crime.”

Craig nodded. “You’re an immature young woman, probably with an equally immature boyfriend, a boyfriend who your father definitely won’t like. You’re the obvious suspects, especially as there are two of you. Maybe she told the boyfriend to leave and he wouldn’t, but if the police had arrived to find both of them here surrounded by blood and with Jane’s parents missing, they’d be suspects number one and two. So you run like hell and you keep on running. If Jane had been alone then she might have called the police because she would have looked vulnerable, but having a man with her means that together they could feasibly have attacked her parents. That’s why Justin O’Hare saw the car racing through town that night. They were running away.”

He could see that Andy wasn’t convinced.

“OK, Andy. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Well…if you’re so innocent how come you make a ransom demand a few days later?”

“You’ve said it yourself; a few days later, in fact almost a whole week. If Jane had planned the original kidnap then why wait all that time to make the call? And why not follow up with another call outlining how to pay?” He shook his head. “The ransom demand was an afterthought.”

Annette frowned. “I agree, sir, but Andy’s right. Why make a demand at all?”

Craig shrugged. “Jane can’t come back to the house and she’s got no money. No money until she’s thirty in fact, unless she uses her credit cards and she’d know we would have a trace on those. She thinks someone has kidnapped or killed one or both of her parents, so there’s an element of shock and grief there as well, especially about her mother. But she also sees money as her chance to break free of her father’s control in the event that he ever comes back, so they make the ransom call. It was a stupid idea and I think they realised it soon afterwards, hence the lack of a follow up. That blog comment sounds to me like someone in pain.”

Annette nodded. It was all possible.

“Perhaps the boyfriend talked some sense into her, sir. So do you think they burnt out the car to avoid a trail?”

Craig nodded. “When this is all over I think we’ll find the two of them holed up somewhere, living on baked beans.” His face grew solemn. “That’s if I’m right and we don’t find Jane at the bottom of the lake like her mum.”

He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Andy, you’re in charge tonight; we’ll be back later if the roads are passable. If not it’ll be tomorrow morning.”

Liam hoped it snowed hard. He fancied some home cooking even if it meant putting up with his brother-in-law.

“Annette, re-interview the cook and the rest of the staff with Julia, and then get to that golf-club. I want every detail you can get about Oliver Bwye’s behaviour that evening. Gerry, keep an eye on what’s happening at the lake then go to the mortuary and see what Mike has to say on Diana Bwye’s P.M. Davy, do what you do and find out exactly where the van and Mercedes went that night. And everyone, remember to…”

He was interrupted by a discordant chorus. “Keep you up to date.”

Chapter Thirteen

The man adjusted his binoculars and watched as the old black Audi pulled away from the house. He imagined its driver racing to interview this or that one, all of them innocent of the crime that the police had come to solve. He allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction at a job well done, but it was short-lived, erased by the sob provoking sadness that followed. In another life none of this would have been necessary. In another life they could all have had happiness instead.

He dashed away a tear and realigned his focus to the back of the house, on the small dark door that had allowed him access and egress that night. He’d been impressed with the planning and the readiness to do what had had to be done; but he couldn’t lay claim to the plan, or take credit for the confusion it now provoked. His role had simply been to do as he was bid.

The helper watched for a moment longer as men and women came and went through the door, scattering this way and that, towards the lake and elsewhere. The man driving to the lake looked tired. They all did; too many nights in a cold hotel, too many days with no respite from work. He adjusted his lens until the lead diver’s face was as close as his hand; his weathered skin and pale lips testament to the elements and the freezing lake. Its use had been a last resort but a boon, and he’d been briefed to come well prepared. Now the divers had found Diana and fairly soon they would find Oliver too, but the one thing he prayed fervently for was that they would never find him.

****

Craig drove so fast that Liam spent half of the seventy-mile journey to Belfast with one hand gripping his seatbelt and the other the passenger door. The only time they slowed down was on the pass, where the snow hid too much icy danger to go above twenty mph. Liam pressed the buttons on the radio, searching for something to sooth his nerves, but the closest he got to a sedative was the crooning of a country and western song. Where was André Rieu
when you needed him?

Craig was either blind to how fast he was driving or ignoring it, no doubt preparing his defence for speeding as ‘urgent police business’; in which case why he didn’t just stick on the blue lights and floor it Liam had no idea. On one moderately paced stretch of road, courtesy of a tractor driver that Liam could have hugged, he decided to ask what the hurry was, in his own inimitable style.

“What’s biting your ass, boss?”

Craig was willing the tractor to move so hard that Liam could see the vein on his temple standing up. He answered without turning.

“What?”

Liam sighed and then tried again in English. “Why are you driving like a bat out of hell?”

“I’m not.”

Craig’s tone said he really believed it.

“You bloody are! You’ve been doing the ton since we left the estate. Look!”

Craig turned to see Liam pointing at a sign that said ‘Belfast City Centre, 10 miles’. As they’d only left Rocksbury at twelve o’clock that meant he’d averaged 90 mph! Liam pressed his advantage.

“I’m surprised we haven’t been nicked. We will be if you do that speed in town. Gabe Ronson runs the traffic lads and they’re pretty sharp.”

Inspector Gabriel Ronson, Gabe to his friends and enemies alike, had an absolute, ‘right or wrong’ approach to life. There were no grey areas in Ronson’s universe; one mile above the speed limit was the same as fifty to him. Both meant a £100 fine and three points and he didn’t care if you were rushing your pregnant wife to the hospital or for that matter if you were a cop. If you were you’d better be pursuing a perp with the driving skills of Lewis Hamilton, because any other reason for speeding and your name went in his book. Ronson had the scalps of Lords, famous actors and an ex-Chief Constable on his list; they showed his even handed approach to the law, a point Liam now laboured with glee.

“He won’t let you off, you know. He nicked an A.C.C. last month.”

Craig didn’t show it but he was shocked at the speed that he’d been doing. He’d been so preoccupied with the case and their impending encounter with Ray Mercer that he’d completely lost track, although part of him was impressed that his twelve-year-old car could still manage it. He knew Liam was right; Gabe was a rising star, who totalled the points his team awarded speeders like he was playing a computer game with promotion as first prize.

Craig nodded. “Sorry. I hadn’t realised I was going so fast.”

Liam grinned. “You were pressing that accelerator like you were stomping on Mercer’s head.”

Craig grimaced. “Don’t tempt me.” He glanced at his deputy. “I’d ask you to rein me in with Mercer except you’re even worse with him than I am.”

Liam shook his head and gestured towards the turn-off they needed to make. “You’ll be grand. If you’re thinking of stepping over the line just remember he’s bound to have a tape recorder running and you’ll never live it down. Make him look the villain and it’ll never see the light of day.”

Craig took deep breaths all the way to The Chronicle’s offices and by the time they arrived he was almost Zen. They climbed the four flights of stone stairs instead of taking the lift and when they reached Cameron Lawton’s suite of offices, he was calmer than even Rieu could have achieved. They were surprised to see Maggie Clarke emerge through the suite’s heavy glass doors.

Craig smiled. “Hello, Maggie. Nice to see you.” He meant it. What had begun as a tense relationship, courtesy of his past experiences with the press, had softened over two years to being drinking buddies whenever Davy invited her along. Liam gazed down at her with a dolorous expression.

“The lad’s pining for you in the frozen north.”

She blushed becomingly and pushed at his arm in embarrassment. “No he isn’t. You’re teasing me.”

Liam guffawed. “Imagine what I do to him.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to Craig. “If you’re looking for Mr Lawton, I’m afraid he’s not in. He’s at a conference in London today.”

Craig frowned. One part of his plan awry already, but he wasn’t giving up.

“Do you know a young man called Cahill?”

“Rory?”

“Yes.”

She smiled as if she was fond of the boy, then her smile turned to concern. “Is he in trouble?”

Craig shook his head. He just wanted to confirm that the lad had told Mercer about the ransom call before he approached the culprit himself.

“I just need a word.”

Maggie began to descend the stairs they’d climbed. “Follow me. He’s in the newsroom.”

Two floors down she stopped by a glass and mahogany door that looked as if it had been there for hundreds of years. It probably had; they were in the Cathedral Quarter, part of Belfast’s eighteen-century linen district. As she yanked the door open, Craig was shocked by the tsunami of sound that emerged. Maggie led the way through a long, narrow room filled with people yelling, keys tapping and phones ringing off the hook.

As they walked past desks with paper piled on top, beneath them and on either side, Craig wondered how anyone worked in such a mess, but the excited young faces and a few older ones said that The Chronicle’s reporters thrived on chaos.

At the end of the newsroom lay a door bearing the sign ‘News Editor’ and a smaller one beside it with ‘Deputy’ on its brass plate. Maggie opened it and suddenly they were in a fragrant oasis. When the door closed behind them there was instant peace.

Liam wandered nosily around the small room, occasionally lifting an ornament or a photograph, while Craig took a seat, marvelling at how tidy it was and how like jasmine it smelled. It reminded him of childhood summers in Italy.

“People must love coming in here, Maggie. It’s like a spa.”

She giggled girlishly and put on the kettle to boil, while Liam walked to her wall of windows and gazed out across the piazza of St Anne’s Square.

“Great view you have.”

“One of the few perks of the job.”

He lifted a photograph that had pride of place on her desk, twisting it around to show Craig. It was of Davy and her, looking happier than anyone had a right to be.

“Does the lad know that you stare at him all day?”

She grabbed the photo so fast even Craig was surprised. “The lad knows.”

Liam heard the kettle boil and took a seat. “Aye well, just don’t expect him to do the same. I’d never let him live it down.”

Craig listened to the exchange with his mind still on the case. A few sips of coffee later he decided to pick Maggie’s brains.

“Have you ever heard of a blogger called Father Fred?”

She laughed and passed Liam a plate of biscuits. “Like Father Ted?” She saw Craig was serious and shook her head. “Never. What does he blog on?”

Craig was surprised. He hadn’t realised that bloggers had topic areas. “What do you mean?”

“Well…for instance, the Huffington Post blogs on political issues. Another one blogs about government corruption. Then you have the vloggers, the ones who make video blogs. There are millions of them all over the world and basically, unless they libel someone, they can say whatever they want. Their host sites might censor them but the good ones can get past that.”

Craig shook his head. “I had no idea. I suppose that’s why they call it the fifth estate, because it’s so widespread?”

Maggie shrugged. “I suppose. I know we’re the fourth but I never knew what the others were.”

Liam chipped in, surprising them both with his knowledge. “The first, second and third estates are clergy, nobility and the commons, the fourth is you lot, fifth is apparently blogging so I call the Bwye’s estate the sixth. Get it?”

Craig was never shocked when he knew things, he just wished he would display his knowledge a bit more often. Maggie stared at Liam for a moment and then turned back to Craig.

“This Father Fred blogger. Is he local?”

Craig shook his head. “Derry. Don’t worry, Davy’s on top of it.” He straightened up. “Now, Rory Cahill. I take it the reason you brought us in is that you want to be there when we speak to him?”

“If that’s OK? You’ll scare him to death otherwise. He’s very young.”

Craig shrugged. “It’s fine, but we need to see him now.”

She left the room hastily while Liam had another nosy around, looking for things to embarrass Davy with. When he heard Maggie returning he retook his seat, with an innocent expression that had never fooled anyone. The door opened and Maggie ushered in a small, thin boy not much older than sixteen. By the terrified expression on his face Craig knew that she’d briefed him, but he was still unprepared for their authority and size.

Both men rose as he entered and Liam’s paunch was eye level with the boy. Cahill stared first at it and then slowly up at Liam’s face, jumping back when he saw his perp-ready scowl. Maggie gripped the boy’s shoulders to prevent his impending bolt and set him down firmly in a seat. She spoke in a soothing voice.

“Now, Rory, I’ve told you that you’re not in any trouble.” Not strictly true. “These officers just want to ask you a few questions.”

Her words fell on deaf ears. Cahill was still staring at Liam. Craig sat and waved a hand in front of the boy’s face, giving a slight smile as he turned.

“I’m Superintendent Craig, Mr Cahill. We need to ask you a few things. All right?”

The teenager nodded slowly at Craig with one eye still on his deputy.

“On Wednesday you overheard a conversation in Mr Lawton’s office, didn’t you?”

The boy’s eyes darted frantically to Maggie and she smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand.

“Tell them the truth, Rory.”

After a moment’s consideration he nodded and Craig smiled again.

“Good. Can you tell us what you overheard please?”

Another glance at Liam and Cahill suddenly decided to cooperate. “I heard Mrs Patterson telling someone that she’d had a call, asking for six million pounds ransom for someone called the Bwyes.”

Craig nodded. “Mrs Patterson was speaking to a police constable, giving a statement. Did you know who the Bwyes were?”

Cahill shook his mousy head. “Not then. I asked someone and they said someone called Oliver Bwye used to own the paper.”

“Who did you ask?”

“Bill Reynolds on the news desk.”

Maggie rolled her eyes and signalled she would tell them more when Cahill had left.

“OK, then what did you do?”

“Bill asked me why I was asking, so I told him. I forgot all about it after that.”

“You didn’t tell anyone else what you’d heard?”

The boy shook his head so hard that Craig thought it would fall off. “No, no-one. I swear.”

Liam frowned at him so menacingly that Cahill leapt off his chair and raced to the door. Craig blocked his path.

“It’s OK, Rory. You’re not in trouble, but I’d advise you not to listen at doors again. It could land you in a mess someday.”

Even as he said it he knew that eavesdropping had made many reporters’ careers and that Rory Cahill would do it again. He nodded the lad out and turned to see Liam stifling a laugh.

“Thank God he’s gone. All that scowling was giving me a headache.”